Love Child
by kindlesprite
Summary: Stan and Craig have always been mistaken for one another, but does the similarity run deeper than they previously thought? Familial relationship between Stan/Craig, some Style TW: alcohol/drug abuse


**Trigger warning for alcohol and drug abuse, please take care while reading!**

* * *

><p><strong>Stan's POV:<strong>

I love alcohol.

I love beer and whiskey and rum and vodka and tequila.

I might be only a sophomore, but in rural Colorado drinking is what we do on the weekends, and good party is never hard to find.

When we hit fourteen, the school districts from North, South, and Middle Park decided it would be best to squeeze all of their primary school students into the same high school. They thought that the new class diversity would be beneficial to our learning. I can't complain, the North park kids might be pretentious but at least with them comes nice liquor.

Clyde's house has been inebriation station ever since his mom died and we were old enough to get our hands on a bottle of gin. Typically, Clyde is out of the game by the time the party gets going, leaving us free reign of the residence. Mr. Donovan is too depressed to bother with us and Clyde isn't far behind, but nobody cares enough to say anything as he drinks himself into oblivion every weekend. On the off chance that I walk in on him passed out on his back, I flip him onto his side, just because I don't want the poor bastard to choke on his own vomit and die.

"Hey Craig!" feeling a hand on my shoulder, I flip around.

"Woah, sorry man." Token says, snorting out a laugh, "You know two look so similar from behind. Do you know where Craig's at?"

I shrug. Why the hell would I know? Craig is a druggie asshole and I make a point to avoid him. When the Middle Park kids came in, they brought opiates and amphetamines galore. It wasn't hard to get kids like Craig, who have been cynical and depressed since childhood, completely hooked on the uppers. I've never seen someone pop so many bennies.

Most of us started steering clear a long time ago, but Token doesn't seem bothered. He has a bit of a cocaine habit himself—since he's the only one that can afford that shit—so I suppose the two deserve each other. Even Clyde seems to think that Craig's falling apart, and that's saying something.

Craig and I in particular don't get along—he blames me for all those years in elementary school that the guys picked on him. I don't know why he can't just get the fuck over it. It's not like he didn't just turn around and do the exact same thing.

Craig and his gang were the worst bullies our school had ever seen, overturning desks and bodies like it was their job. Tweek and Clyde were impressionable, and once Craig decided what he wanted out of them he didn't have a hard time getting it. Clyde was out as quickly as he had started, but Tweek stuck by Craig's side for a lot longer—high on his new found confidence. Nearing the end of 8th grade, a threat of expulsion was the only thing that brought it to an end.

Either way, I hate them all.

"Alright, well I'll catch up with you later." Token offers, "By the way, Kenny was looking for you—wants to do shots."

I nod. I'm not a big talker when I'm drunk, I never have been.

Token runs off and I head towards the kitchen to find Kenny—that's where he always is, trying to drink everyone under the table. Kenny's got a high tolerance, I'll give him that, but I can hold my own. I've known what it was like to not be sober way before anyone I go to school with.

Everyone says that Kenny's a problem kid, but then again, so am I. My parents have tried to divorce so many times I've lost count. It just feels like another empty threat at this point. Lots of _"Stanley, your behavior makes us act this way!"_ and _"Why do you insist on causing all these problems for us?" _bullshit, but they cause their own problems. They know that. The same goes for Kenny's parents. He hasn't even really lived with them since winter of last year. I guess something finally made him snap because he picked up and moved out all in one night. Maybe he had been prepping for a long time. I don't know where he finds the money to rent the apartment he has. I'm afraid to ask.

"Stan!" Kenny exclaims excitedly, clearly already part-way gone when I enter the room.

"Take a few with me, yeah?" He picks up a bottle of Maker's Mark and displays it seductively, rubbing the neck of the bottle.

I pass him a shot glass across the island and he fills it eagerly with the amber liquid. We _tink_ our glasses together and counting to three we both down the contents.

I don't take anything slowly.

I practically inhale one, two, and then three shots. Kenny tells me that he has to stop because he's topping out at six drinks.

"I won't be able to get it up later if I have any more." He tells me, eyeing Red out in the living room. The two of them have been dating on and off since freshman year.

Right now is one of their 'on' periods. I can't lie, I don't like them together. Kenny is a wild child and Red always seems to be trying her best to keep him under wraps. For someone who says she cherishes stability, Red really has her hands on the wrong guy. She tells everyone that she's in love and so everything is worth it, but I can't help but wonder if she's being just a little bit naïve. Kenny's not lying to her—he's always been straightforward about not wanting an exclusive relationship—but Red seems to think that she can change his mind with enough patience and affection, which is just clearly not the case.

I take one more shot and then stop, waiting for the dizzy wave to hit me. I'm at six for the night and I know that I better cap out, but I aced a history pop quiz this week and I want to reward myself. One more and I reach seven. I sink down to the kitchen floor, listening as people stumble in and out of the room, angry rap blasting out of Clyde's Soundbar speakers. We've all been at it for three hours and everyone is pretty far gone. Even Bebe and Annie hardly notice as they trip over me, trying to reach the Donovan's liquor cabinet.

It doesn't take long before my fingers start to tingle. I wish Kyle were here—he was never really one for the Park High School party scene though. He's been hyper focused on college lately—even though we won't be graduating for two and a half more years—and he's felt farther away than ever.

My eyesight's is blurry and all I can focus on is the absence of my best friend. I know deep down that Kenny's the only one I have left. Even Cartman dipped out a long time ago, finding friends of equal morals from Middle Park. He always hated us anyway.

I wonder sometimes if I should be more focused on college. To be honest, I don't really want to go. I like South Park and I like what it does to me. My life feels good when it's a fuzzy mess. Kyle doesn't agree though. He wants everything to be crystal clear. He says that it's important that he makes all his decisions by himself and without alcohol to slow him down—that way he'll never regret anything.

My lips feel numb. I don't regret anything.

Suddenly, I feel a familiar surge in my stomach and I nearly choke as my hand flies over my mouth. One shot too many. I shoot up from the linoleum floor, nicking my head on the corner of a cabinet.

I'm too drunk to feel the pain.

I bolt down the hall and slam the door to the bathroom open, only pausing when I see who I think is Craig sitting hunched up against the sink. I shove him out of the way, drop to my knees and retch for all I'm worth.

"_Move!"_ I say angrily, heaving again and bashing Craig when I feel he's still too close.

No response.

"What the fuck is your problem, asshole?" I snarl, looking up from the toilet.

He's moved from his position against the sink cabinet, but now he's slumped on the tile.

"Dude?" I'm still so dizzy that I can't tell if he's breathing.

"Craig!" I say again, the panic and sickness rising in my chest, and as I move towards him I lose it again—vomiting all over my sleeves and onto the floor.

"God fucking—" I ignore the mess and reach over, grabbing Craig's shoulder.

He doesn't move.

"Craig, this isn't fucking funny! You're such a fucking tool." I start to shake him, but stop as I realize the motion is doing nothing but making my own stomach churn.

I lay my hand against his cheeks and he feels freezing, so I do the only thing my intoxicated brain and think to do next.

"Token!" I scream in a panic, "Kenny!"

Anyone?

I continue to yell as I whip out my cellphone.

"_911. What's your emergency?"_ The voice on the other line asks.

"My name is Stan Marsh." I hiccup, shouting into the receiver "I'm at a party. There's someone—my—uh—my friend—I'm trying to wake him up and he won't move!"

"_Where are you sir?"_

My mind blanks, "Uh—uhm—we're the last house on 3rd avenue. It's brown. You'll probably be able to hear the music."

"_We will send someone right over. Did you see what happened?"_

"No! I came into the bathroom and found him on the floor."

"_What are his symptoms?"_

"I don't know if he's breathing. He's completely frozen and totally unconscious." I say frantically, rolling Craig onto his back and then back onto his side.

"_Has he been drinking?"_

"Yeah probably—probably that and a lot of other stuff!"

"_Is it possible that this is a drug overdose?"_

The image of Craig popping pills flashes through my mind as I shudder into the receiver, "Yes."

"_Do you know if he or she has any history of drug abuse or mental health conditions?"_

"How the fuck should I know?" I snap suddenly, "I'm not his fucking mother; I'm just some kid he goes to school with!"

"_Sir, please remain calm, we understand that—"_

Sirens begin to blare outside, and I drop my phone. The rest of the house goes quiet. The angry rap music shuts off.

Students rush past the bathroom door, down the hall, and out the back door, no one bothering to stop until I hear Bebe's voice shout "Oh my god!"

From there, everything stops. Kenny plows into her, resulting in a pile up in the hallway, and soon everyone is crowded around the doorway.

"Is he okay?" Bebe asks, entering and placing her hands on Craig's cheeks in the same way I did.

"Someone go let the fucking police in!" I shout at the crowd, but it's clear that they already have as an EMT works his way into the bathroom.

He drops to his knees immediately, checking Craig's vitals. Why couldn't I have thought to do that?

More EMTs come, shouting at us to clear the hallway.

He's barely breathing, but his heart is still beating. I choke out a sigh of relief. It takes merely seconds for them to strap an oxygen mask over his mouth and make room for a stretcher. Before I know what's happened, they're loading him into the ambulance. My heart is still racing.

"Sir?" An officer says to me, as I sit outside in the snow with the rest of the kids who stopped to help—or more accurately, watch.

I glance up, and realize that he is holding up a beer can.

"Do you have an ID that proves you're over 21?"

I shake my head, and over all of the commotion, I can hear Clyde crying.


End file.
